The Secret History of the Former Prince Saboo
by Beechwood0708
Summary: From Saboo's beginnings as a slave in Virginia in the eighteenth cenury, through his discovery of shamanism and pursuit of immortality, to encountering Naboo and on to an as yet unspecified ending.
1. The Slave and the Shaman

Hoopla, FF Net!

Okay, so basically Boosh Treatment will be updated as and when, but I'm treating it as a break from less humorous affairs, namely this, right now. I've had this idea for a fair while, and I was debating between doing Saboo or Mrs Gideon first, but i decided to go with Saboo because I've had a real Naboo thing going on lately, and he makes his appearances later on in this fic. Though, as of yet, I have no idea how this is going to end.

I have work due for Tuesday, which I had all Easter to do and started this morning. So basically I should be looking for essays and journals on early modern drama to reference, but instead I was looking up African baby names, human geography and the Atlantic slave trade. But on the plus side, this fic is at least partially (tho probably not all that much) historically accurate.

I've fanonised (I like that word) that Saboo is Yoruba, from western Nigeria, and most people believe that the Yoruba language is the origin of the word "Juju". Which I didn't know until about an hour ago. And if Richard Ayoade also happens to be of Yoruba heritage, then I believe his surname means "joy-crown", or, as seems a much better translation, "crown of joy". Which he is.

Please enjoy.

The Secret History of the Former Prince Saboo

He didn't remember Nigeria. They all told him he was a prince, and they treated him as one. His father claimed to be a king, and it was true, Saboo noticed from a young age, that he seemed to see himself as responsible for the situation shared by their entire village.

As he grew up, he didn't know whether to consider himself a prince or not. His people treated him as one, not that it made much difference, but they were the people he knew and cared for, and saw every day and worked with, and so they were the people that knew him best. But if he was a prince, he was a prince in Nigeria, which he hadn't seen since he was barely out of infancy. He only knew Virginia, and he was most certainly not a prince here.

He lived in a scrap-iron cabin with his parents and three others, one of whom was a child who had been born in there. He had been picking cotton almost since he could walk, he spoke a language that was not his own, his back was criss-crossed with scars from the whip, and he had the initials of the man he called "master" burned into his shoulder. Not a prince's life.

This was why, at the age of seventeen, when people called him "omo oba", 'prince', he told them to stop. He had been a prince once, he explained, but he wasn't any more, and until the Africans could live freely in their own lands again, he was not going to accept that title.

His father was proud of him the day he heard that explanation. His son was a true leader, he said, and fit to be called king after him. Secretly, Saboo doubted this would happen. The business, the trade in human lives, was too big, they were relied on too much to be given up so soon, and if Saboo could not be prince, then he could never be king either. He didn't tell his father this.

The king's pride encouraged him though. He got friends together, and in secret they discussed escapes, protests, anything they could do, but found that very little was possible. No protest or strike would go unpunished, no escape seemed plausible enough to bring success, and any failures would set them back, make the African people afraid, and their plight would become ever worse.

"Don't be so vocal," his father had warned him one day. "You'll draw attention to yourself. You will achieve nothing with them watching you."

He hadn't appreciated the warning until it was too late.

Bamidele had always followed him. He was enthusiastic, and ready and willing, and Saboo admired him. And then, one day, the Africans were ordered to drop work immediately and convene in the courtyard. And there was Bamidele, struggling and furious, held by a white overseer, and nearby was his wife of three months, Folami, restrained by another. Bamidele, Saboo realised, had attempted one of the rejected ideas for escape, and been caught. Folami was simply there for being married to him.

He watched, bloodless, as they were tied down, as hammers were brought out, as high, desperate screams pierced the air around the silent crowd, and as they were left, broken and bloody and slumping like rag dolls, to die.

When the others met the next night, all Saboo could do was look each of them in the eye and say that, short of a miracle, he was giving up.

* * *

More had arrived, like any more were needed. Where they came from, Saboo didn't know, and didn't really care. There were so many nationalities, languages and cultures in that one plantation that people had almost given up trying to understand each other, and generally associated only with their own people, even after only just arriving.

So why the old man kept catching his eye, Saboo had no idea.

He hadn't met the others at night for months now. He couldn't face them. They had kept on meeting, discussing, theorising, when he could no longer see the point. They would never be free, there would be no more kings. They had told him that Bamidele and Folami's deaths weren't his fault, when the thought that they were had never really occurred to him.

So, to avoid disappointing his father, who still believed that there was hope for the enslaved people of Africa, he took to wandering around the cabins at night, telling his family he still believed in freedom.

"Good evening," called another voice from across the row. The old man appeared from the shadows. He spoke English so that Saboo could understand, but with a very thick accent that Saboo couldn't place, and which obscured his meanings somewhat.

"Evening," Saboo replied.

"I knew I would find you here," said the old man. "Hiding from your disillusionment."

Saboo stared. "What?" he asked.

"I know you come here because you cannot face the fact you have no hope," the old man said casually, smiling as though it was normal to know such things about a stranger, or to tell him so.

"How do you know?" Saboo asked.

"I've seen it," answered the old man. "Forgive me, my name is Kafil, I am from Kenya, and I have been drawn to you."

"What do you mean, 'drawn to me'?" This man was beginning to unnerve Saboo. He was speaking to him as though they were familiar, and about things that Saboo was entirely uncomfortable discussing with a stranger.

"I'm sorry," replied Kafil. "I forget that you have not seen me as I have seen you. I am a shaman. I have seen you in my dreams and my visions, and I knew that you were real, and that I would find you someday, in this place." Kafil looked at the ramshackle huts around him, and Saboo thought he saw the old man shiver. "I never would have thought such a place existed," he continued. "But here I am, and I have found you."

"A shaman?" Saboo repeated.

"I convene with the spirits, change the world around me," said Kafil.

"So you know everything about me?" asked Saboo.

"Nothing at all."

Saboo stared at the old man.

"I have seen you, and I know you are important, but I know nothing of you as a person," Kafil explained. "Not even your name or where you come from."

Saboo shrugged. "My name is Saboo," he said. "I'm from Nigeria. Yoruba."

"But Saboo is not a Yoruba name?"

Saboo couldn't help but laugh. "You're going to love this," he chuckled. "My father said the name came to him in a dream."

And the old man was laughing. Like a child. Saboo found himself laughing with him, mirth suddenly flooding him, and they sat for what must have been several minutes, just laughing.

As they calmed down, the old man looked in Saboo's eyes.

"You will escape with me," he said.

"I can't do that," Saboo replied.

"Why not?"

"It won't work."

"It will work. There will be magic to help us."

"Magic?"

"The magic of the world, of the beings around us and the spirits long unseen."

Saboo regarded him. "Like… Juju, you mean?"

"If this is what you call it, then yes."

Saboo looked around at the cabins, the faint lights of candles visible in the windows. "I can't just leave everyone," he said.

"They can never be freed from the inside."

Saboo looked back at the old man. His dark, lined eyes were full of sincerity. And it was true- if he stayed, he could do nothing. If he left, he might have a chance.

"Okay."


	2. Escapees

The latest in the series grows. And at 3:34am I really shouldn't be here, especially since I'm running the 3K at Leeds Met tomorrow (yay, lecture skipping!), but it wanted to be posted, and I didn't want to let it down. Even tho I seriously doubt there's anyone here to read it right now. O well, lots of lovely reviews (I hope) will be my reward after a gruelling day of athletics.

The line "I know heaven is awaiting for you" comes from a Zulu hymn called Jabula Jesu. Kafil is neither Christian nor Zulu, but I wanted to put the line in anyway, because my gospel choir sang it at our fantastically successful concert last night. Yays!

And I have nothing against rabbits. I adore them, and if anyone came anywhere near my angora, I would knock fourteen shades of shit out of them. If she didn't do it first, I have a feeling she might be evil. But according to the casual information bible wikipedia, it is a shamanic duty.

It is amazing how interesting American geography suddenly becomes when you're rearching fanfiction. Hopefully the fic lives up to it.

* * *

The escape, much to Saboo's surprise, had been easy. He had met Kafil in the early hours of the morning, when the night was at its darkest, and Kafil had simply led him out. They had hid silently behind a hut for half an hour or so, and Kafil had warned Saboo not to disturb him, and then closed his eyes and started gently tapping on his thighs, and then mumbling quietly under his breath. Saboo watched him a few minutes, worried that the men employed to stand guard would hear him.

"Kafil," he whispered. "Kafil, what are you doing? They'll hear."

But Kafil hadn't reacted. He'd just carried on chanting, his face neutral and blank. Saboo tried poking him, but still the old man wouldn't react.

A moment later, the guards had just walked away, together, without saying a word, and Kafil seemed to sway, and then came back to consciousness, blinking as though there was light in his eyes.

"Go quickly," he said. "Before they return."

They had run from the grounds, as swiftly and as secreted as they could, running for shelter in the forest.

"We must keep walking," Kafil panted as they reached the cover of the trees. "Put as much ground between them and us as we can. But they will come looking, so keep your eyes and ears alert."

"Where are we going?" Saboo whispered.

"We must go north?" replied Kafil.

"North to where?"

"I do not know the name of the place. But we must go far north, and then across the sea."

Saboo thought for a moment. "To Canada, and then somewhere else?" he asked. "You want to leave the country? We can't do that- what about the others?"

Kafil looked at him. "We will help the others in time. I have only seen where I must take you first."

"How can I help them at all if we're not even in the same country?"

"The reason will become clear."

"When?"

The look Kafil gave him was stern, and ugly. "They will become clear when the spirits choose to tell me."

They walked on in silence.

* * *

It was sometime past noon when Saboo caught the sound of dogs on the wind. "Kafil," he whispered, and Kafil turned around and looked, Saboo following his gaze and seeing nothing, and then quickly inspected the trees, and began to climb the largest. Saboo followed, overtaking him and stopping to help the older and smaller man reach the higher branches.

"They will come this way soon," Kafil whispered when they reached the highest safe place, so quietly that Saboo had to lean in and strain to hear him. "I can stop their souls from noticing us, but I cannot fool the human eye, so we must be very quiet."

Saboo nodded, and the two waited in silence for what felt like hours and hours.

Eventually, the sound of dogs grew louder, and the voices of men mingled in. Then they appeared below them, four of them, armed with guns, with a pack of dogs running round their feet, noses to the ground. As the dogs reached the tree they were hiding in, they began to bark.

"Are they up that tree?" Saboo heard one of the men ask below.

There was a pause, full of tension so thick Saboo could almost feel it pressing his skin.

"Dunno," said another voice. "Don't think so."

Another, shorter pause, and then a quiet, irritated call of "Come on, dumb hound," before the men finally moved away. Saboo let out a sigh of relief, and began to lower himself to the next branch. But Kafil held him back, and motioned to him to stay put. And so they did, until the men's voices and the barking of the dogs had long since faded from earshot.

They climbed down, Saboo going first to catch Kafil if he stumbled, and then continued their walk in breathless quiet, each thinking his own thoughts as they walked, until the sun began to go down.

Eventually Saboo broke their silence. "What did you do?" he asked.

"To stop them from seeing us?"

"Yes. And to the guards when we escaped."

"I found their souls. Souls are not inherently evil," he explained, "they are influenced by what is around them. The shaman can exert a stronger influence on these souls. I can make them leave, or shroud us from their consciousness. Or I can make them appear, from the next world or from this one. Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Saboo answered.

Kafil stopped, and knelt on the ground. Saboo stopped next to him and watched him intently. He watched as Kafil's eyes closed and the expression fell from his face, like it had done that morning when they escaped. He stayed like this for several minutes, before a rabbit came hopping from the undergrowth and stopped right in front of him. Kafil's eyes opened again and he smiled, and petted and stroked its head gently, before gripping it and twisting its neck.

Saboo stared in awed silence, before finally willing himself to speak. "You made it do that?"

"I asked him to," Kafil replied.

"You asked it to come out so you could kill it, and it did?"

"Yes," said Kafil, cradling the dead rabbit in his palms. "We had a long conversation about it, his soul and mine. I told it that we need its help, and that there is a place in heaven for him."

Saboo watched in awe as Kafil stood and took the rabbit further into the trees, and began to light a fire.

"Could you… teach me to do that?" he asked.

Kafil looked up at him and smiled. "Not tonight. Your body and your mind and your soul are weary tonight. We will find a safe place to sleep, and if I can I will teach you in the morning. I think you will adapt well to it."

Saboo sat down, a warm sense of elation spreading through him.

* * *

That night Kafil dreamed. Another soul had come to him. In the dream, he lay exactly as he lay in the waking world, in the branches of a tall tree, with the youth, deep in his own sleep, lying nearby.

She stood in the branches before him, the moonlight reflecting on her dark skin, making her look strange and otherworldly, a being made entirely of black and silver. There was dark blood on her dress, and a cold look on her face.

"Do not feel angry, or afraid," he said, in that strange language he spoke in these dreams, a language that came to him as naturally as his own, but which all souls, humans from every place in the world, animals, other beings he could not recognise but knew were there, could understand and reply in. "I had to take him. Can you not see he is important?"

She looked over to where the boy was sleeping, and he wondered if he could see her expression soften. But when she looked back to him, her face was cold again.

"I know heaven is awaiting for you," he told her.

She sneered, and looked off into the moonlight. She turned and walked along the branch, and had disappeared before she reached the end of it.

Kafil fell back into silent sleep.

* * *

Kafil told Saboo he couldn't teach him the arts of the shaman the next day, claiming that they still needed to get as far away from the plantation as possible. The next day though, he began to teach Saboo how to enter a state of trance through drumming, dancing, singing, chanting and meditation.

"I have always found drumming to work best for me," he told him. "An external sound that I have created brings me to the influences that I can bring from outside my own body. Others prefer dancing, as the spirits compel them to get up and move, and forget anything else. Some simply sit in silence until they rise from their bodies. And some believe in using drugs to pull them from the physical world."

"And you've tried all of these?" asked Saboo.

"I have tried them all, but I do not take drugs," he answered. "I wish to be in control of my spirit."

Saboo took it all in, and began after a few days to feel elevated when he opened his mouth and sang, letting words appear from nowhere. When Kafil drummed, he felt an urge within him to get up and dance, moving as though guided by someone else, and not his conscious mind. A week or so later, just after they crossed the state line into West Virginia, Saboo achieved a full trance.

After passing through the strip of West Virginia between Virginia and Pennsylvania, they met up with a group of escaped slaves heading north, and continued their journey with them. They attracted a lot of attention, the old Kenyan shaman and his plantation-raised Nigerian companion, but Kafil never seemed to let it bother him, and so Saboo reasoned that he shouldn't either, however much it irritated him. Kafil carried on teaching him in private, though it was more difficult now, with so many people around them.

Eventually they crossed into New York, and from there reached Canada, travelling north-east to the sea port in Fort Albany.

"This is the ship we must take," Kafil told Saboo, looking out at the few large ships anchored nearby. Saboo admired their size and their design, finding the one Kafil had indicated quite interesting. He noticed a shudder in the old man's body.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Oh," smiled Kafil. "I was simply hoping that this journey on the sea will be more pleasant than my last."

Saboo put his arms around Kafil's bony shoulders, silently reassuring him. "England?" he asked. "Why there?"

"Well…" began Kafil.

"You dreamt it."

"Yes."

* * *

Kafil remained nervous on the journey to England. The ship was owned privately, and used almost solely to run escaped slaves to other countries, so it was cramped, but at least it was clean, and the food was plentiful. Nonetheless, both of them were overjoyed when the ship finally anchored in Penzance, and their feet touched dry land again.

"So where have the spirits told you to bring me now?" Saboo asked.

"To a forest, a little further north-east from here," answered Kafil. "There will be someone expecting us there. A self-appointed leader of shamen. The spirits call him Dennis."


	3. The New Old World

Hey. Some more apologies. Firstly for not updating in ages. I've been trying to review. And secondly, for not reviewing fast enough. There are about fifteen fics I still haven't read right now, but I will get round to them I swear. So once again, this is dedicated to everyone who's written stuff that I haven't yet reviewed. I will, I swear.

A second dedication to Jamie, because she's been waiting for something that happens n this chapter ;-) and also reminded me to actually include it.

So, yeah, I'm not entirely happy with this. I like the start, but I'm not too sure about the end. I wanted to offer some ficcage to y'all, but I'm not sure if the end seems rushed, or if Dennis' voice is quite right.

If anyone's interested, the X-rated version of Once Upon a Boosh is now posted on Blue Boosh, tho I warn you, it is extremely worng, and I may have freaked even them out. ButI thought some people here might like it. I am also toying with the idea of trying het pr0n. Said pr0n would be Spider/Monkey, but I'm not sure whether to do it or not. It would be part of a larger fic, the details of which are on my profile. PM me if you have an opinion.

Also, whoever can spot the reference to something else I'm a fan of wins imaginary fairtrage chocolate and a pr0n request, if they would like one.

Hope this is satisfactory.

* * *

The forest clearing glowed under the moonlight, as Saboo and Kafil waited for the shamanic leader to appear.

"We must be careful," Kafil warned Saboo. "The spirits have told me that this Dennis has a terrible temper. They say he is a Celtic priest, and well over two thousand years old, and that he had spent his entire life preparing for one battle or another."

"Who's he battling?"

"Near enough everyone," Kafil replied. "The Romans, other clans, Scandinavians, the French, anyone who is not a shaman. He is very much a loose cannon."

"Are you sure you can trust him?" Saboo asked.

"The spirits have led me to him. They would not do this without a reason."

"How do you know he's not controlling them?"

"I would know," Kafil asserted. "The spirits cannot be controlled, only influenced, and I may not have his strength to influence them as he does, but I would know when they are acting in his interests and not in mine."

Just as Saboo was about to reply, the sound of heavy footsteps resounded through the trees. Both men raised their heads to the darkness in front of them, and from the shadows emerged a man, bulky and tall, dressed in a long robe of some cheap material, evidently made by the man himself, with a long cloak covered in peacock feathers, with a pale bald head covered in strange swirling painted designs. This, Saboo presumed, must be Dennis, leader of shamen.

He smiled, and Saboo instantly mistrusted him.

"Kafil," he said by way of greeting. "And your companion…"

"Saboo," Kafil filled in.

Dennis nodded at him. "You have come far," he stated. "Why?"

"I was brought to you for reasons that have not been made completely clear," Kafil answered. "I believe, though, that it may be to introduce this young man to the wider world of shamanic society.

"Are you asking me to train him?" Dennis demanded.

"No," replied Kafil. "We have come far together, and if he is to be trained I would sooner for his sake and mine do it myself. I only feel it would be beneficial for him to know of the way of life, and the ways of others. We ask only for shelter and a place to stay."

Dennis looked them over critically. Eventually, he nodded slowly. "You may stay here," he informed them. "There is a secluded area half a mile down this path where you will not be disturbed. A few minutes' walk further, there will be a gathering of alike minds. I will be joining them. If you wish, you may also join us."

He turned and strode back into the forest the way he had come. "Follow me!" he called back to them.

The got up and followed him through the shadowy trees. Saboo could barely see, and kept tripping on roots, but he followed closely behind Kafil, who kept his eyes fixed on the man in front, and eventually they came to another clearing, a smaller one, with a pile of wood for a fire in the centre, and two hammocks hung from the trees.

"I am sorry there is no more stable lodgings for you," said Dennis, and the apology surprised Saboo. "But my own home is somewhere I allow no one."

"These arrangements are fine for us," Kafil replied.

Saboo looked around the clearing. The fire they would build there would surely burn for hours, a stark contrast to the small and pitiful fires they had made do with on the way there. And the hammocks looked like the most comfortable things he had ever slept on. Anything was better than the cold ground, and they looked much more restful than his hard bed in the slave cabins, or that on the ship.

"I will leave you now," Dennis announced. "The others… will more than likely have not noticed my absence. But I will return to them all the same. Join us if you want to."

And with that, he vanished into the shadows.

Saboo watched him go, and then turned to Kafil, who was looking through the food that had been left for them.

"A gathering of alike minds?" said Saboo, as Kafil began to light the fire. "It sounds intriguing."

"It is not what you think," replied Kafil. "It is likely to be a group of rowdy deviants taking so many drugs they cannot tell a vision from a hallucination from what is there in front of them."

"But still," said Saboo, "it might be interesting to see. Just how they live, what they do with each other. I've never met any other shaman but you."

"If you want to see them, I do not see why we should not," Kafil agreed. "But we should eat first, of course."

"Of course," Saboo concurred.

* * *

Two hours or so later, after they had cooked and eaten their meal, Kafil and Saboo walked through the trees, following the strained sound of music. After a while, the glow of a fire came into view, the music mingling with shouts and cries and laughter.

As it grew louder, they stepped into another clearing, this one larger, with a huge fire in the centre and teeming with people. A well-dressed man smoked a pipe with a woman covered by nothing but body paint, swirling green smoke escaping their mouths as they exhaled. A group danced around the fire shouting things in strange languages, before all falling simultaneously to the floor, laughing hysterically. A man in a turban whispered in the ear of a man with beaded dreadlocks, and the dreadlocked man giggled, ran off to grab a woman who was lying upside down with her legs against another man, and dragged her off, taking the turbaned man by the hand, and the three of them ran into the trees.

Saboo looked around in awe. This place was incredible.

Then his eyes fell on something that made him shriek. "What on god's earth is that?" he cried.

"What, him?" asked a lean man standing smoking nearby. "That's just-" he pushed out a string of odd cries, grunts and clicking sounds "-but no one can really pronounce that, so we just call him Tony Harrison."

Saboo regarded this creature. The thing known as Tony Harrison was a vivid pink head with tentacles, and because of the shape of his head, he looked like he had some sort of brain disorder to boot.

"That doesn't seem so hard," mused Kafil. He repeated the string of sounds to the note.

"What's that?" screeched a strong, coarse accent. The tentacled thing attempted to wiggle along the ground towards them. "Someone calling me? In me own tongue? Who is that? Pammy, is that you?"

"What?" gaped Saboo.

He was saved having this thing answer him by the call of another person. "Oi, Tony," she called. "What you on about? Who's this Pammy?"

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced Tony Harrison. "I have found the girl of my dreams."

"In your dreams, more like," shouted someone else.

"Her name, for those able to pronounce it," he began, pausing to wink at Kafil, "-alright, mate- is-" he came out with another string of sounds which Saboo honestly couldn't discern from the previous one "-but for those without the vocal development, I like to call her Pam."

"Pam?"

"What's wrong with it? It's a nice name," Tony Harrison countered.

"It's about time," laughed the lean man.

"What you on about, 'it's about time'?" huffed the head. "I'm only seventeen years old."

"Seventeen?" the man guffawed. "Get out of town, Harrison, you were here for the turn of the century. You were only a nipper, but I still remember you munching through your fair share of opium poppies."

"It is not my fault that my planet's orbit just happens to take ten times as long as yours," insisted Harrison. "Ergo, seventeen."

His planet? Well, that would certainly explain his existence.

Saboo turned to Kafil and nudged him. "Did you know there would be creatures from other planets?" he whispered.

"I did," his mentor replied. "There are shamen in every country of every continent of every world in existence, and those that can will often travel from world to world, in spirit or in flesh. I have often felt their presence in my dreams and trances, though I could never recognise them. This is the first time I have met one in the waking world."

Saboo watched this alien thing as he grew bored of his argument, and started shouting at those around him to burn bits of cut-up plants in a ceramic bowl in front of him. They lit a small fire, and several of them sat around it, breathing in the smoke deeply. After a few moments, he saw their expressions become softer, almost dazed, and they seemed to slump, and grinned as though they were mad.

"What are they taking?" Saboo whispered.

Kafil shrugged. "Marijuana, peyote, whatever they can find, I suppose."

Saboo watched intently. They seemed so changed by it. The raucous anger and boisterous challenging had faded and been replaced by quiet, mellow inhalation. Tentatively, he stepped closer.

He watched them a while, until one of them locked eyes on him and nodded. He looked back. Kafil had gone. He walked forwards and sat down.

The smell was odd. He couldn't quite place it, but it seemed almost familiar. Trying to recognise it, he breathed in deeper. And again. And again.

And all was well. He knew that until the night was over he would never need to move from this spot. There were no problems now. Time had stopped here, and everything was fine again. Like it should be.

He wasn't sure how many hours it was until the dawn came, but he remembered more drugs, more vapours, that odd voice on that pink head, how funny it was, such ease, no need to think, beautiful people, walking into a tree he swore was nowhere near him, and Kafil gently pulling him away through the twilight, and overall, an overwhelming sense of blissful ease.

* * *

Saboo and Kafil built a home for themselves not far from where they had stayed that first night. They were close enough to Dennis to ask his advice on various matters, often with regard to Saboo's shamanic training, but far enough away that he would never become defensive about his secretive abode.

For the most part they tended to stay away from mainstream society, with Kafil still being somewhat nervous of it, and associated mainly with other shamen at gatherings, parties and celebrations. Saboo continued to take drugs, though only at these gatherings, where he felt that they were used not to achieve trances, but simply for enjoyment.

They were invited to join in discussions with Dennis' irregularly convening shamanic council, which some people would always attend, others occasionally would miss, and others hardly ever turned up to at all. The pink head thing Tony Harrison became a semi-regular sight, his presence generally becoming known before anyone had entered the area of the meeting by his screeching boasts about where he and his Pam had been on their last date, how charmed she had been by him, and how he hadn't thrown up when they rode the horses. Saboo was usually rather glad that he couldn't manage to picture these images.

Though this secluded shamanic life was all needed, Saboo might occasionally take himself out to see what was going on in the world. He was regularly seen observing and sometimes taking part in public debates about the slave trade and America and such subjects, and it was perceptibly clear what his opinion on the subject was. Used only to dressing in rags on the plantation, he had also become something of a dandy, stepping out in tight breeches and stockings and figure-hugging jackets. He was an impressive sight; tall and toned and always well-dressed, and Kafil was led to believe that he had a fair many admirers.

And once, when the adamantly opposing beliefs of a commercial slave trader had clashed with his own, he had ripped his jacket and shirt from his body and bared his scars to the room, and they had been stunned into silence.

He was becoming impatient though, and Kafil was worried about it.

"What does any of this have to do with freeing anyone?" he asked, frustrated with endless days of trances and spirits. "My people and yours are still suffering, and how is this benefiting any of them?"

"I only know it must be done," Kafil replied. "We will know when the time is right to act."

"I don't think you're interested in acting at all," argued Saboo. "You lured me away to become your protégé, under false pretences of helping free slaves."

"You must understand, you are important," Kafil told him. "I do not yet know how or why, but you are. You must trust me, because the spirits say for your sake you must learn from me. This can take a lifetime to master, so you must be diligent or the time will be lost."

Saboo just looked him straight in the eye and scowled. "Then I'll make sure the time will never be lost."

He stood and disappeared into the trees.

* * *

The first time he came to him he looked angry, but he was really just frustrated and confused. His request, which had left his mouth before Dennis had even had a chance to greet him, was simple enough.

"Make me immortal," he demanded.

Dennis could have laughed. But he didn't. "Does Kafil know you're asking for this?"

"He knows enough."

So the boy knew what he wanted. That was always good.

"What makes you think I can give you immortality?"

"They said you were two thousand years old. How could you not be immortal?"

Dennis grinned, a shark's grin. "It's true," he confirmed. "I have known the likes of Cathbad, Mug Ruith and the arrogant Cabadath, and I have discovered the secret of immortality. And you want me to show you?"

"Yes. I do."

"What makes you think I will?"

"Nothing," answered Saboo. "But I might as well try."

Dennis' grin widened. He seemed the right material.

"Follow me."

* * *

"This is all that's needed," Dennis told him, as he watched the bare materials drop into the mortar. "The crushed, heart, brain and muscle of a sacrificed beast, mixed with the sap of a healing tree, and burned." He split the gory mixture into two shallow bowls, covered the tops with dry weeds, and set them alight. "And now," he continued, "an offering of blood."

Without hesitation, Dennis sliced his finger and squeezed several drops of his own blood into his bowl. Saboo watched, and a second later took a knife and sliced his own finger, and squeezed out his own blood. Dennis smiled, and the two of them lifted their vessels in synch as the fire went out, and drank.

From then on, Saboo didn't see so much of Kafil. When he needed knowledge in the ways of the shaman, he always went to Dennis.


	4. They That Make it to Freedom

Sorry for the slow updatatge of this fic. I'ts been nearly a month, and I missed it. It's so nice to write something that isn't porn for a change- much as I know we all love it, that seems to be all I've done lately. I thought I really should update it, because I saw that other Saboo fic that's just been posted, and I thought that this really hasn't had enough of my attention. So for that I'd like to thank Elise for getting me off my preverbial arse (and onto my physical one), and becuase there just isn't enough Saboo in the world. And I promise you, love, that I will review it at some point, tho not for a while, as I still have about 35 fics left to go. Also, I know my supreme behindness on reviewing is rapidly pushing me to the edges of this wee community, and if I'm not careful I may end up known only as that weird perv that hangs around sometimes. So I thought an update on something everyone can read would be necessary.

While I'm here, you can probably tell from that last thought that I was in a bit of a melancholy mood earlier, so I'd also like to thank Steph and Jamie for writing lovely fluff at just the right time for me to read it earlier today and get massively cheered up. I love you guys :-D

Anyways, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, it all feels like filler around a few events, but this fic never really had much of a concrete storyline to begin with. I'm thinking Naboo might make his appearance in the next chapter, and once he gets in there I think this'll get better, as it was the relationship and the rivalry between Saboo and Naboo that inspired me to write this in the first place.

But no one's really interested in my vaguely depressive sentiments, so here's the fic.

* * *

Whether Kafil had tried to put off Saboo's breakthrough or not, Saboo never found out. But either way, it wasn't until he started training with Dennis that it happened.

She appeared to him in the darkness of late evening, face streaked with tears and blood, black and silver in the moonlight.

He had ran to her, and they had stood still for hours in the spirit world, locked in the last embrace they would ever share, as he wept and she simply stood, still and comforting, and insubstantial.

This was the night, when after almost half a year of separation, Saboo finally returned to Kafil.

"You never told me that they killed my mother the day we escaped."

"I could never have told you," Kafil explained. "Otherwise-"

"I would ever have come with you."

Saboo glared at his former mentor with a silent rage he couldn't remember feeling for a long time. The old man just stood and took it, his aged, bent body seeming to strain as though there was a heavy weight forced on him by that stare, until he crumpled under Saboo's gaze.

Saboo left him.

That night he left the forest.

Within days, he had left the country.

* * *

The dawn was almost breaking, and Saboo knew that they needed to hurry. One of the women had a small child, and was lagging behind. Signalling to Harry to take the lead, he moved back through the group, took the child from her arms and urged her to go on, while he followed with her child.

Sensing an unwanted presence close by, he signalled again for the company to halt, and they stopped, all straining to hear, quiet like ghosts. Saboo knew that the utmost care was imperative. He had helped hundreds, maybe even thousands so far, but the one time, all those years before, he had been anything other than completely cautious, he had lost them. Nineteen of them captured, only himself and Harry, who had vowed to help him ever since, managing to escape. Saboo would never forgive himself.

With one hand gently pressing over the child's mouth, Saboo began to hum, and then to sing in a quiet whisper, strange words, not English, not Yoruba, not Swahili or any other language he knew. It was that language. The one he spoke in his trances.

He found the souls, not too close, but closer than Saboo considered safe. He spoke to them in those words they could not understand, and they heard them and left, as though of their own accord.

He gave a signal, and the group moved on. The child began to whimper in Saboo's arms as the trees began to thin, until Saboo shushed her gently, and carried on. The minutes passed slowly as the area was confirmed to be clear, but soon enough they were safe, and Saboo was once again back in that same small town near the Pennsylvania state line.

They hid in the home of a wealthy white sympathiser named Alfred Ferriman, who had given substantial amounts of money as well as his protection to the escapees and their guides. Saboo passed the child back to her mother, who went to put the child to bed in another room, ready to move on the next night. The escaped slaves sat in Alfred's large living room, talking and relaxing before they slept, while Alfred provided food, and liquor for those that drank.

"Have you heard?" Alfred asked Saboo as he passed him a measure of whisky. "Ohio's passed a law for gradual emancipation."

Saboo smiled wearily and took a sip of his drink. "Well," he said, "it's a start."

Still, this news was enough to trigger a small celebration, spurred on by Harry and one of the escapees, a young woman of twenty named Anna Rye, who had been born into slavery and knew no other life, performing some bizarre mockery of a waltz to the cheers and laughter of everyone in the room.

It was at that moment, after almost fifteen years, Saboo felt a strange feeling, an urgent burning, a _need_ to return to England. He told Harry that he would be safe to guide the slaves alone from here to Canada, and he left that same night.

* * *

Saboo returned to the forest near London only days later. Nothing had changed. Dennis met him, and not one day of the fifteen years they had been separated showed on his face. But then, neither did it show on Saboo's.

They embraced, and Saboo thought that there was genuine emotion in it. Why this was, when Dennis was normally so coldly reserved, Saboo couldn't say. Saboo had an urge to say that he had missed the shamanic leader, or at least that he had missed the place or the society that frequented it, but both he and Dennis would know that that would be a lie.

"I knew you would return here," Dennis told him as he led him through the trees.

"Of course you did," replied Saboo. "I was called back."

"Though we all know you felt the calling, many believed that you would ignore it," Dennis reasoned. "But I knew. I knew you would follow it."

"What was I called for?" Saboo asked.

Dennis didn't answer, and Saboo became aware that he was being led to the home he had made with Kafil when they had first arrived.

"He wanted you to be here," Dennis explained, and Saboo noticed the hint of melancholy in his voice, and understood immediately.

He entered the small house alone, and crossed to the bed that had been moved into the main room. Kafil lay there, small and withered, his face lined so much deeper, his body so much thinner and frailer. His dark eyes looked up and met Saboo's, and he smiled, ever so slightly.

"I hoped you'd come back," he said, his voice a small, cracked whisper.

Saboo could only look at the old man, not realising there were tears in his eyes until they began to obscure his vision and he had to wipe them away. There was still such wisdom in those eyes, so much dignity left in that frail little body. There was still a strong man there, only weakened by time.

"Why?" Saboo choked.

"'Why'?" Kafil repeated.

"Why are you dying?" Saboo asked through the escaping tears. "Why not choose immortality? There's no reason for you to go."

Kafil shrugged on the bed, and Saboo was struck by the smallness, the weakness in the gesture. He felt the tears fall a little faster, to see such a man reduced to this.

"I've lived long enough already," was all Kafil said. He looked up to the ceiling, his eyes wide and faraway, and smiled. There was youth in the smile. Youth and joy. "Heaven is waiting," he whispered.

He began to hum, and sing. In the waking world, Saboo could not understand a word of the old man's song. Tears now falling freely, he could only watch as Kafil slipped into an effortless trance, fingers tapping on his thighs, all the sadness and pain lifted from him, and died, smiling.

* * *

It hurt Saboo that he had no idea of the Kenyan funeral rites. Kafil had always kept his beliefs beyond shamanism obscure, and Saboo had no idea what else he believed in, what faith he followed, or how best to conduct the funeral. In the end, he made some attempt to translate the traditional Yoruba ceremony into his shaky Swahili, and improvised where he needed to. It felt incomplete, and insufficient, and Saboo burned at the thought that this was the best he could do.

He felt hollow and useless for days afterwards, a deep, empty hole opening inside him every time he looked at the dates on the memorial stone; one definite, one an estimation.

1701-1798.

He'd almost made it.

Saboo took to wearing black, not only during the funeral, but after it. And not just for days after, but for months, and years. Even when the shamen got together to celebrate the turn of the nineteenth century, he wore black.

He stumbled through the crowds, sober and clear-headed, not really seeing the point in celebrating more time passing. After all, he was going to see it all.

He passed uncountable people that he recognised but hadn't seen or spoken to in decades, and many others whom he had never met. He smelled drugs on the air, and the lingering sadness of the past few years washed over him as he remembered Kafil's staunch refusal to touch them, and he had an urge to find and take as much as he could as quickly as he could, to forget. To go hazy. To turn the real world into another place, that didn't exist. To rise up. To be free.

Tony Harrison had brought opiates. Saboo was quite looking forward to seeing him take them. Tony had discovered opiates a few years before, and quickly learned that they had the same effect on him as eating the poppies, only stronger. Saboo had seen him on them once, and it was fairly amusing sight, if slightly disturbing, as he tended to vibrate, shout a lot and hump things. Saboo heard that loud, brash accent over the humming of the crowd, and wandered vaguely in its direction.

"Who's that giant walking crow?" Tony shouted as Saboo first came into his line of vision. "Oh. Saboo, you slag, I ain't seen you in ages! Where ya been?"

"You saw me in May, Tony," Saboo reminded him, a flicker of a smile just appearing in the corners of his mouth as the memory of the night came to him unbidden.

"What happened in May?" Tony asked.

Saboo indicated Tony's opiates. "You knocked yourself out on those things."

Tony looked to his companions for confirmation. They all nodded, some smiling wider than others.

"It was funny," one supplied.

Tony gave a self-satisfied grin. "Well, I've increased my resistance, and you won't be gettin' a show tonight anyway," he gloated. "I'm meeting the little lady before midnight, and we are going to bring in the new century elsewhere."

There was a mass groan from the people around him, until Tony told them they could keep the opiates, at which point it turned into a cheer.

Saboo sat with the others, loaded opium into a pipe and lit it. The stuff was unusual, very different to the marijuana and peyote that he was used to, but not unpleasant, and Saboo breathed it in eagerly. It made his head feel empty and light, like it could float away with him. He smiled to himself, taking in more, as his anxieties drifted free from him. He could hear the conversation around him, small and meaningless, and though he forgot everything he heard seconds after it was said, it made him smile.

He didn't notice when Tony Harrison left, though he remembered a few people standing up and shouting goodbye. He remembered falling back and laughing, just because the world really could be a nice place, with the right people and the right way of life, and he had found where everything in the world was right. He remembered a man singing a song loudly in Scots, and running around getting people to hold hands and dance. He remembered dancing. Or at least jumping around holding hands with the strange Scotsman.

But when he woke he was covered in vomit and stank of urine, and his skin was scratched raw. He decided perhaps he should wait a while before taking any more.

* * *

Tony Harrison returned the next evening. Few people were still there. Some had left for homes elsewhere, but most had just crawled into houses or undergrowth and slept the day through. Dennis had passed out shortly after midnight and still hadn't woken. He was lying in the middle of the clearing with his most of his clothing missing and spectacles drawn on his face in charcoal.

Saboo still felt light and sleepy, but he was awake at this point, just as the sun began to set, when he and a few random shamen sat listening to Tony bragging, as he was wont to.

"Me and Pammy, last night, all night," he screeched, opium pipe hanging loosely from his mouth.

"I'd have thought you'd have done it before," said one still stoned woman, a slight laugh in her voice.

"I am not a slag," maintained Tony.

Saboo couldn't breathe for laughing for several minutes.

But as Tony attempted in vain to defend his honour, Saboo tuned out and watched the swirls of opium smoke rising. He breathed it deeply in.


End file.
